


Orphan Confederation of Bad Deeds and Terrible Misjudgements

by thelogicoftaste



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Con Artists, Derek and Scott are Brothers, Erica and Stiles are best buds, Leverage AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Like Robin Hood," Stiles says. "But with tighter asses and better costumes.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orphan Confederation of Bad Deeds and Terrible Misjudgements

**Author's Note:**

> You needn't have watched Leverage for this.  
> I use the heists from the show pretty much verbatim (because I have zero originality skills) but everything else is my own creation. 
> 
> As always, Teen Wolf does not belong to me (sad as it may be) it belongs to the original creator Jeff Davis, and all the affiliates of MTV, all of whom created this wonderful series - thanks be to you, Ladies and Gents :)

-

This is precisely why Stiles works alone.

He works better that way. He’s quick, efficient and almost untraceable. He doesn’t need a team, and he most certainly doesn’t _want_ one.

Stiles is not exactly what one would call a considerate member of the human population. He can be difficult – an _asshole_ , if you will.

Sometimes he opens his big mouth all but shoves his foot in there, landing himself in situations like this, wherein he owes Erica Reyes, of _all_ people, a favour.

Her delicate stiletto heels click over the polished stone floor of the bar he’s currently holed in, and she stops just beside the booth he’s sitting in.

“Drinking already?” she asks, all honey-rough voice and golden curls falling over her shoulder.

Stiles tips his glass of bourbon towards her before knocking it back, whisky burning down his throat, he grins, “I’ve got to deal with you somehow.”

Erica smirks, slinking into the seat opposite him, hand smoothing over the silk of her fancy dress.

“So,” Stiles begins, leaning back. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Following you,” she tells him. “I feel like now’s a good time to cash in that favour between us.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, “And you couldn’t have done that in Boston, a week ago? Or when I was in New York? Or Atlanta?” he asks. “You had to do it when I came _here_ , of all places?”

Erica shrugs, composed as ever, “The problem is localised here, and so is the team you’ll be needing.”

“I hate you,” Stiles tells her. “So, so, much.”

“Tell me again, so I can pretend to care,” Erica replies, eyes wide as she nods in sweet condescension.

He rolls his eyes, can’t quite fight off a grin. He’s known Erica for years, they’re the same age, grew up in the same orphanage.

They’re friends. Sort of.

They bitch a lot, argue occasionally and save each other always.

Erica got lucky, being adopted when she was eight by the most honourable and most disgustingly rich Mr and Mrs Duke and Kali Reyes.

_(“What kind of name is ‘Deucalion’ anyway?” Stiles had asked, ten minutes before she was meant to leave. He didn’t bother to disguise his bitterness, gaze stubbornly fixed on the ground in front of him._

_They were sitting in the foyer of the orphanage, on the metal chairs that lined the wall opposite the front desk, legs swinging in the inches between the floor and their feet._

_Erica rolled her eyes, sighing heavily, “Like you’re one to talk, Stiles,” she had said._

_“That’s different,” he’d retorted._

_Erica hadn’t said anything more at all but she had gripped his small hand in hers, and she didn’t let go until she absolutely had to.)_

At heart they’re both the same nameless faces and tragic cases they were twenty years ago.

“One favour,” he tells her. “That’s it.”

“One favour,” she agrees, taking three glossy files from her jade-green Birkin and sliding them across the table.

-

Erica’s dad has a lot of connections and a particular close friend of his is in the business of aviation design.

The man’s designs were stolen by a rival company, he has a shareholders meeting he’s supposed to present them in at the end of the month and _yada, yada, yada_.

Stiles has stopped listening at this point. All he knows is that there are three other people hired on this job and he’s rounding out the team, for a hefty three hundred thousand dollars.

It’s a lot of money, sure, but Stiles has received a lot more for doing a lot less. He makes it clear that he’s doing this for Erica, and for Erica only.

Stiles doesn’t know the other three team-members personally, but he has – as one con artist to another – followed their work very closely.

Erica jabs her elbow into his rib, startling him into paying attention, before she reaches forward to pick up her glass of champagne, glancing around the restaurant with serene casualness.

The man, Victor Dubenich, is small and squat; with a rugged, weather beaten face and dark eyes placed a touch too close together. He looks desperate, and also like he’s been running a ten-mile race – a bad combination all round.

Dubenich turns his beady eyes to Stiles, “I know who you are,” he says. “I’ve read all about you,” he smiles diffidently at Erica. “Miss Reyes has told me about what you do.”

“Is that so?” Stiles asks mildly, sharing a smirk with Erica.

They’re barely in their twenties and their reputation already precedes them. Erica is not a con artist, not exactly, but she has been known to dabble in some less than moral activities.

“I know,” Dubenich continues, conspicuously lowering his voice, “for example, that you … well, you found that stolen Monet in Florence. You probably made, what, twenty to twenty five million on the market?”

Stiles smiles, “You must have dug very deep to find that one out.”

Finding the Monet was a stroke of luck, a complete one in a billion chance opportunity – and Stiles was nothing if not an opportunist.

He was barely seventeen and in the middle of Europe – and he’d taken lots of care to specifically and cleanly hide the fact that he was the one behind the deal.

There were rumours, of course, but who was going to believe that a teenaged boy was selling a highly sought after Monet piece.

“Then,” Dubenich is saying, “there was that identity theft thing and you gained I don’t even _know_ how many millions of dollars.” 

“Exactly,” Stiles says, hands smoothing over his pressed white shirt before he leans in. “Money is not exactly a _necessity_ for me, Mr Dubenich, and I don’t come cheap. So why exactly is it that you want me?”

“You’re one of the best in your field,” Dubenich says, eyes flickering to an amused Erica and back again.

“ _The_ best,” Stiles corrects. “But I’m retired now.”

Erica shoots him a look.

“Semi-retired,” Stiles amends. “So I’ll ask, only once, what’s in it for me?”

“The ones who stole from me,” Dubenich says, “a company by the name of Pierson Aviation-”

“Are you absolutely sure that they are the ones who stole the designs?” Erica asks, resting her elbow on the back of Stiles’ chair.

Dubenich flusters, “My engineer goes missing, he disappears with _all_ of my files and then one week later Pierson announces an identical project? Of course it’s them. It _has_ to be.”

Stiles sighs, “I’m still not understanding why I should even take the risk.”

“Pierson is insured by I.Y.S. insurance,” Dubenich says, at Stiles’ blank look he continues: “It’s a fifty million dollar intellectual property rights policy, Mr Stilinski,” Dubenich says, hands pressed together as he leans forward. “Just how badly do you want to screw over the insurance company that let your mother die?”

Stiles flinches – and then he stops breathing; he’s surprised into total frozen stiffness as Dubenich’s words ricochet around his head. Erica’s expression tightens, and her hands drops to Stiles’ neck, squeezing lightly in comfort.

“ _Don’t_ make this personal, Dubenich,” she warns him icily, brown eyes narrowing. “You try to emotionally guilt trip us into this thing and we’ll be gone before you’ve managed to open your mouth, do you understand?”

-

Stiles meets the makeshift team two days later.

They converge in the apartment Erica has rented for the time being in downtown Beacon Hills.

He’s sprawled over one of the couches, feet kicked up over the arm, as he reads and pretends to be utterly disinterested in the conversation Erica’s having with the other three.

She’s barefoot, pretty green dress fluttering around her legs as she stomps across the living room space to push Stiles’ feet to the ground, snatch his book and hit him across the head.

“Get up,” she says. “Pay attention.”

Stiles does, following in her wake to stand by the breakfast bar.

Kira Yukimura, one of the most notorious thieves in the country, is leaning back against the intercom on the wall opposite the front door, eyes flickering from the door to where the Hale brothers are looming by the large bay windows of the living room.

Stiles watches each of them carefully, cataloguing the way that they act around each other. He extends a hand out to Erica beside him, and she places her palm on his as she elegantly slips into her nude heels.

The older Hale brother, Derek, has his big arms crossed tightly across his black shirt, biceps bulging. He stands next to Scott, body angled in a way that shields his younger brother from everybody else in the room.

Derek eyes Stiles and Erica in turn, “Are you planning to tell us what the job is any time soon, or are we just going to stand around?”

He’s kind of hot, Stiles thinks, once you get past the blatant homicidal tendencies.

“Pierson Aviation,” Erica says, sauntering to the middle of the room, “We’re going to steal ourselves some designs.”

“What’s in it for us?” Scott asks, his expression marked with suspicion.

“Three hundred _thousand_ dollars,” Stiles says. “Each.”

“Just as a basic salary,” Erica continues, slowly circling the room. “Aviation design has proved to be a very financially beneficial endeavour. And should any extra designs be stolen and maybe - oh, I don’t know - sold to a nifty little market,” she pauses, turning to Kira, with a small smile. “Well. Finders keepers.”

Kira lifts an eyebrow, “And you think you can pull this off? It’s one hell of a risky job.”

“Trust me,” Erica says, “you won’t find anyone better to pull of this heist than Stiles and I.”

“You two,” Derek interrupts, pointing a finger in each direction, “are the youngest ones here.”

“And five times as successful as all of you put together,” Stiles challenges.

“The Monet was pure luck,” Derek scoffs.

“Yet, here I am,” Stiles says, hands sweeping in a grand fashion over himself. “Twenty-three years old and at the _top_ of my market.” He presses a hand to his chest, adopting a look of sycophantic sentimentality. “And you’ve been keeping tabs on me. How sweet, I’m touched.”

“You contacted my brother and I,” Scott interjects. “You really think we wouldn’t do our research first?”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Stiles concedes. “ _But_ , if you don’t like the idea of working under the plans made by us young’uns, then you know where the door is. We’ve got plenty of thieves who’d gladly take your place.”

It’s funny the way that the Hale brothers seem to move in almost perfect synchronicity: the shifting of feet, the tightening of arms across their chests, the look on their faces as they chorus, “We’re not thieves.”

“Thieves, I’ve already got,” Erica interrupts smoothly. “But Stiles is impulsive and Kira is unpredictable. Which is why I need _you_.”

“You’re retrieval specialists,” Stiles adds, trying not to wilt beneath Derek’s stellar glare. “The _good guys_ ; two honest men watching over us. Like Robin Hood," Stiles says. "But with tighter asses and better costumes.”

Erica shoots him a stern look, and Stiles puckers his lips into a kiss. She might pretend to be offended all she likes, but the fact of the matter is that Stiles had caught her eyeing up the younger Hale kid with lust in her eyes and fire in her belly not twenty minutes before.

Derek glowers at him, but Stiles only sends him a playful wink and his best winning smile.

Kira’s expression shifts, like something has finally clicked into place. She turns to the Hales, “You were the ones behind the Vancouver Op four years ago,” she says softly. “You saved a lot of lives.”

Scott nods at her, looking solemn and proud, “That’s right.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “This is very sweet and all, but I actually have more important things to be doing,” he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his black slacks, “So, are you in or not?”

-

Days later finds the team standing outside the exterior of Pierson Aviation headquarters.

The building is a shiny behemoth of glass and metal. It’s half-dark and decidedly quiet this far into the night but the air is still and warm, the only sounds being the careful footsteps of the team as they converge on the other side of the street.

“Ready?” Erica asks.

She gets four decisive nods before she turns on her heel and walks away, sneakers silent on the asphalt as she steals into the building opposite Pierson.

Erica will be stationed in a room she and Stiles had prepped earlier, so as to monitor the team, as well as the building.

By the time Stiles and the others are situated on the roof of the Pierson building, Erica has already placed her headset on.

“Okay,” her voice crackles through the headset. “Clear the comms.”

Stiles picks up his corresponding headset, sighing in disappointment.

“Erica, old buddy, old pal,” he begins. “I love you, darlin’, but this just won’t do. This equipment is total VH1,” Stiles explains. “It’s the best - of the _eighties_. Don’t worry though, I’ve got something much better.”

He doesn’t need to physically see her to know that she’s wearing an expression of total exasperation. “No surprises,” she warns.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” Stiles argues. “I’m Captain Discipline. I’m sophistication personified.”

“Like New York five years ago?” Erica teases.

“What happened in New York?” Scott asks, from where he’s setting up his and Kira’s equipment at the edge of the rooftop.

Erica is only too quick to answer, “For his eighteenth birthday, Stiles fooled the hotel he was staying at into thinking he was Mick Jagger.”

“He did _not_ ,” Kira gasps, laughing. Stiles doesn’t know where she _is,_ actually. He’d lost sight of her the second they got on that roof.

“I did,” Stiles replies, to the general direction of her voice. “Billed my stay courtesy of Mr Jagger’s credit card number. It was truly a _fantastic_ day.”

“Until the security guards came and broke down the door,” Erica reminds him.

“Which was entirely rude,” Stiles complains, pulling out the box he was looking for from the depths of his black rucksack. “I was busy. _Very_ busy.”

He’d hired three beautiful women to dress up as Princess Leia. He’d been lying on the chaise lounge; sipping his orange soda and watching the three Leias play fight with lightsabers when the guards had arrived.

Stiles opens up the metal box, carefully extracting the earpieces embedded in the soft, cushioned interior.

“This,” he says, placing the first one in his ear before picking up another one, “is a bone-conduction earpiece mic. It works off the vibrations in your jaw.”

He offers it to Derek, watching as the man warily places it in his ear.

Stiles grins, and he lowers his voice to demonstrate, “You can hear _everything_.”  

Derek looks mildly impressed. But Stiles gets that vibe about him, that the man is only mild in everything he does and every emotion he conveys.

Stiles wants to see him lose control, just the once, and preferably whilst he’s writhing and naked beneath Stiles.

“You’re not as useless as you look,” Derek begrudgingly admits, taking another earpiece and handing it to Scott.

Stiles realises that this is probably the most advanced form of compliment that man will ever grant him.

Still, he narrows his eyes at Derek, “I don’t even know what you _do_.”

That’s a lie, obviously. Because everyone knows that Stiles is the master of research, and he’d heard everything there is to know about this Derek Hale.

He’d heard, specifically of the Serbian job three years ago, wherein Derek had faced a roomful of men armed to the teeth, searching for a priceless baseball card.

He’d walked out of there intact, unharmed and _with_ the merchandise.

The man is a legend.

And also, apparently, very serious about his baseball.

Kira drops down between Stiles and Derek, hanging upside down from the scaffolding.

“Can I have one?” she asks Stiles.

“You can have the whole box,” Stiles tells her. He never was able to resist a pretty girl.  

She takes one with a returning grin before pulling herself back up.

Stiles is still smiling up at her when Derek pipes up next to him, voice calm and low as ever, “What are you going to do when she finds out you still live with your mom?”

Stiles knows it was meant as joke, but he still can’t help the flinch he emits at the words. His laugh, when he forces it from his throat, comes out sound a little rough and forced, even to him.

“It’s the age of the geek, Derek,” he tells him. “We run the world.”

Derek hums, “You keep telling yourself that,” he says, fixing his beanie over his head, making sure they cover his ears.

“I’m five times richer than you are,” Stiles cries indignantly.

“And twice as dumb.”

Then the bastard walks away, leaving Stiles mid-splutter as he heads back over to Scott on the edge of the roof.

Kira is sitting on the scaffolding now, her black Converse dangling by the side of Stiles’ head. She’s adjusting her repelling gear, the lights of the city catching on her wicked smile.

“The last time I used this rig,” she muses. “Paris. 2009.”

Scott is climbing up to sit beside her, strapping himself in to an identical gear.

“The Caravaggio?” Scott asks her. “You stole that?”

Derek sneaks up behind Stiles, “Is this thing safe?”

Stiles jumps about half a foot in the air.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he screeches, whirling around with a hand pressed down on his racketing heartbeat. “Do you do that on purpose, you absolute _asshole?_ You should really invest in getting some fucking bells to wear around your neck.”

Derek’s barely making any effort to conceal his smug smirk. He holds up his earpiece, repeating, “Is _this_ safe?”

“Yes, it’s completely safe,” Stiles confirms, waiting until Derek’s nodding in reprieve and turning around, to add, very deliberately, “But …”

Derek freezes, and then with great, begrudging, effort, he turns around. He quirks his eyebrows in annoyance, “But?”

“You might just, y’know, experience nausea, dizziness, weakness in your right side - a stroke,” Stiles says. He puts his hands on his waist and nods decisively, “Strokiness.”

“You,” Derek bites out, jabbing a finger in Stiles’ direction, “are precisely the reason I don’t work with anyone but my brother.”

“Right,” Stiles drawls, rolling his eyes. “Because you’re such a joy to work with. I bet there are people clamouring to partner up with you. Just _clamouring_.”

“I’m going to strangle you,” Derek warns him, insufferably annoyed, making a cocoon with his hands to demonstrate.

Stiles only laughs, loud and far too bright for the covertness the team is attempting.

Erica comes back on the line, her voice is clear, with no trace of the crackle of the old comms.

“Okay, guys,” she says. “We go on my count, and not a second sooner.” There’s a pause, and then she adds, “Kira, Scott, no freelancing.”

“Hey, relax,” Derek says to Erica. He still doesn’t seem to have gotten the hang of this comm thing, and he keeps pressing his finger to it, like that’ll make him come across more clearly on the line. “We know what we’re doing.”

“On the count of five,” Erica says.

Stiles shares a commiserating look with Derek, “She’s such a hardass. You do _not_ want to see her when she’s angry.”

“Good thing I had my period last week then,” Erica retorts blithely and she starts counting down.

From above Derek and Stiles’ heads there is the dual sound of running footsteps crashing down on the metal scaffolding.

“They’re gone,” Derek tells Erica, even as he and Stiles run towards the edge of the roof. Erica has barely hit number three.

She swears in their ear, sharp and loud, “ _Son of bitch_.”

In the air Scott and Kira are soaring.

Their bodies are arcing in the night, muscles locked tight – all streamlined and focused, their arms outstretched to either side.

As they arc to dive, Kira lets out the most excited yell of adrenaline-fuelled triumph Stiles has ever heard. It echoes all around them.

He and Derek are peering down and over the edge, shoulders touching.

Derek’s shaking his head, though he’s smiling a little as he mutters, “She’s twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag.”

Stiles doesn’t even know what the _fuck_ that means, but he’s not really paying attention anyway, too enamoured with the look on Derek’s face.

Kira and Scott roll to a smooth stop to the floor they need, hanging upside down and peering into the brightly lit, but empty, office.

Scott’s holding his hands to the window, but he’s not quite touching the glass. He’s figuring out the alarm system, Stiles realises.

“Vibration detectors are on,” Scott reports.

“Okay,” Erica replies, no doubt watching the events unfold from the other side of the street. “Scott, use the thermal binary to cut through the glass before you climb in.”

On the rooftop, Derek taps Stiles on the shoulder, motioning for him gather their supplies. They open a hatch on the roof, sliding their bags down first before dropping into the building.

The hatch that they’re climbing down leads to the top of an elevator panel, and all they have to do now is wait. Kira and Scott are supposed to be disabling the alarms before sneaking into the electric control room, to hack into the electrical grid that controls the elevators.

Derek’s starting to look more impatient the longer they stand there, mouth pressing tight together.

“Y’know, Scott?” he bites into the comm, five minutes in. “Any time you wanna-”

The elevator jerks into motion, falling fast and smooth down the chute. Stiles lets out a cry of surprise, knees buckling underneath him. He automatically seeks out to balance himself by catching Derek’s shoulder.

The man doesn’t seem to mind, much to Stiles’ surprise, and instead he seems to actually _move_ so that his body provides more of a support for Stiles to lean on.

“The boys are on their way,” Kira informs Erica.

“Great,” Erica replies. “How’s it going with the security? You see any security?”

There’s a long pause whilst Kira, presumably glances at the live feed of the security room from her portable monitor.

“They don’t see a thing,” she says, her smile audible in her voice.

 Scott, done with manipulating the controls, tells them, “The doors are open.”

The elevator slows to a smooth stop, just beneath the doors – allowing Stiles and Derek to step out with ease.

“Alright, team,” Erica says, clapping her hands together once. “It’s showtime. Here we go.”

Stiles jogs just behind Derek as they traverse the corridor, stopping in front of a door with a number pad and an area to insert clearance cards.

Derek digs into the black rucksack he’s carrying, pulling out the device Stiles needs.

“Got it,” Stiles says, feeding the blank card attached to the end of his machine into the slot by the door. It should, given enough time, hack into the mainframe of the building’s secure channels and give him the numbers necessary to unlock the door.

“Can you hear any chatter on their frequencies?” Erica asks over the line.

“No,” Scott answers. “Why?”

“There are eight guards listed on the duty roster,” Erica explains. “But only four at the guard post.”

“I can’t even tell how many guys are in the _room_ ,” Kira says, confusion evident in her voice. “How can you tell who’s who?”

“Haircuts,” Erica tells her. “Count the haircuts, Kira.”

Derek has his finger pressing up against his earpiece, “Is there a problem?”

“Uh, maybe?” Erica says, and she sighs. “Kira, run the cameras.”

As Kira follows Erica’s orders a few floors below, Stiles’ device has finalised scanning the system it’s hooked into.

“Ten digit password,” Stiles grins, watching the display on his device. “So much smarter than I gave Pierson credit for.”

Over the line, Scott makes a disgruntled noise.

“We’ve got‘em,” he says. “The missing guards, they’re doing their walk through an hour early. The other guys are just watching highlights from a baseball game. So why the fuck are they doing their walk-through early?”

Derek shifts beside Stiles, “It’s the playoffs,” he says, arms folding over his chest. “Game five of the playoffs, they’re doing their round early so that they can watch the game. Something that, unless Stilinski hurries the fuck _up_ , I won’t be able to do either.”

“Derek,” Scott says, ever-patient. “We’re TiVo-ing it. It’s cool.”

“Its not the same as watching it live, Scott, you _know_ that.”

Stiles looks up at Derek’s words, and promptly does a double-take.

“Are you pouting?”

Derek narrows his eyes at him, “No.”

“Yes, you are. You’re _pouting_ ,” Stiles crows, ignoring his device for the time being so as that he can give Derek an extensive view of his gloating grin. “Derek Hale. Pouting over baseball.”

Derek false-starts forward, making Stiles flinch back with an undignified squawk.

“Shut up,” Derek says, smirk flickering over his mouth. “And do your job.”

“Are you boys done, now?” Erica asks, barely pausing before she continues, “Where are the guards now?”

Scott answers, “At the stairwell.”

“Wait,” Stiles says, throwing a horrified look towards Derek. “Our stairwell?”

“Okay, guys,” Erica says, trying to keep calm. “Here’s what we’ve got to do. We’ve got to squelch them. Scott?”

“Doing it … and,” Scott pauses for a long while, fingers flying over his keyboard. “Done. I’ve sent out a scrabble to the guard’s comm frequencies. They won’t be able to use their radios or the intercoms.”

“Derek,” Erica says next. “I want you to clear the zone. Use Stiles as bait.”

“Wait,” says Stiles, head snapping up. “What?”

But Derek’s already taking off his jacket, running off to disappear to _god knows where_.

“Now, wait a second,” Stiles is yelling after him, making a half-abandoned move to follow Derek. “ _Bait?_ I _know_ you’re not talking about me. Derek, I’m not your bait! _Derek?”_

The asshole is nowhere to be seen – Stiles turns back to his handheld, fingers tapping on the curved edges of it as he pleads, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Work for me. C’mon, _please_.”

The device has worked out four numbers already; it’s just working on the fifth when Scott’s voice comes through.

“Stiles, they’re almost there.”

Stiles’ heartbeat is steadily picking up, and there’s no way in hell that his device is going to finish working out the password in time.

“Fuck,” Stiles swears, he’s going to have to abandon it. “ _Fuck._ ”

He drops the device, leaving it hanging by the strap that connects to the card in the slot. He bends to pick up the rucksack Derek left behind and spins around to leave. 

Stiles turns and starts to speed away – only to come face-to-face with four guards blocking the exit, guns pointed at him. Stiles’ breath gets caught in his throat as the sound of safeties being clicked off fills the silence.

“Hold it right there,” the guard on the outermost left yells at him. “Drop your rucksack.”

Stiles is going to _kill_ Erica the next time he sees her.

Absolutely murder her – just chop her up and send her to her parents in time for their anniversary.

He raises his hand over his head, rucksack hanging off of his fingers.

Derek walks out behind the guards – leather gloves pulled over his hands, completely and utterly silent.

Stiles’ eyes flicker to Derek and he can’t quite help the smirk he directs towards him. Stiles lets the rucksack slip from his fingers as Derek bounds into action, the bag seeming to fall in slow motion as the man moves.

Derek goes for the rear-left guard first, kicking his thigh hard enough for the man to crumble to the floor whilst he’s simultaneously punching the rear-right guard in the jaw.

The front guards spin around, guns aimed haphazardly at the commotion behind them. Derek’s too fast for them though, moving with serpentine motions of his body, controlled and practiced, as he takes them out quickly and efficiently.

By the time that the rucksack finally hits the ground with a dull thud, Derek’s the last man standing, holding one of the security guards’ gun in his hand.

Stiles is suitably impressed.

Derek unlatches the magazine of the gun, throwing both behind him. He grins a tight, sardonic smile, “ _That’s_ what I do.”

Stiles lowers his hands slowly, still gaping at Derek.

“That was really hot,” he says, Derek rolls his eyes, stalking towards him. “I’m serious! Top five moment, right there. You wanna make out for a second? I’ll even let you touch my butt.”

“Maybe later,” Derek says. And … is he _flirting?_

Stiles gapes some more, “There are _so_ many things I want to do to you right now.”

Erica pretends to gag over the line, Scott sighs deeply and Kira asks, “Is he always like this, because I’m _not_ about that life.”

Derek shakes his head, but he’s _smiling_ \- Stiles can see it even as Derek tries to smother it, and it causes a huge, sincere smile to emerge on Stiles’ own face.

They look at each other until the door behind them clicks open, finally.

Stiles heads towards it, excitement bubbling in his belly. The server room is dark, lit up only by the green glow of hundreds and hundreds of shiny, technologically advanced interfaces.

It’s like Christmas and Stiles’ birthday all at once. He can just _feel_ his face light up with excitement, and he laughs, smiling brightly.

Derek stands beside him, not looking nearly as excited.

“Your face scares me sometimes,” he tells Stiles.

“Oh,” Erica cheerily pipes up. “Is he doing the creepy grin thing that he does?”

“Yes,” Derek says. “Yes, he is.”

Erica laughs, “It’s harmless, I swear. But, c’mon, back to work. You guys gotta talk to me, okay? ‘Cos I don’t know what’s going on.”

Derek heads back to tie up the security guards whilst Stiles beelines for the nearest terminal.

By the time that Derek has brought in the four, still unconscious, guards and lined them up on the inside of the server room, Stiles is elbow deep in the system.

“It’s all good,” he tells Erica. “I’m stripping the drives as we speak.” He plugs in the flash drive as Derek peers over his shoulder.  Stiles waits, fingers tapping on the metal base of the monitor. Once it’s finished, the monitor flashes a sign – _No files found. Please try again._

Stiles grins, “Oh, you _beauty_.”

He removes the flashdrive, pocketing it before addressing Erica, “I’ve got all the designs and the backups. I’m leaving this whole place bare.”

“Good,” she crows. “Now, drop the spike.”

Stiles does so with relish, loading up a page of data that he tinkers around with, fingers fast and skilled as he works. The monitor screen flashes, freezes before ultimately falling to the Blue Screen of Death.

The glowing green lights of the servers begin to go out, one by one, leaving Stiles and Derek in complete and utter darkness.

“Did you give them a virus?” Derek asks, warm breath fanning over Stiles’ cheek.

“Dude,” Stiles says, spinning around on the spot, chest almost touching Derek’s. “I gave them so much more than one measly virus. Call me 1918 because I gave them _death_.”

Derek snorts, cuffing Stiles over the head before he heads out towards the hallway. “Come on, _La Grippe_. We’re not done yet.”

They don’t get very far, however, before Kira’s voice is in their ears again.

“We’ve got a problem,” she says. “The guards you ganked? Well, they reset all of the alarms on the roof and the floors above us. We can’t go up.”

There’s a long pause; an awkward, tense silence across the five members of the team and a heavy weight settling at the bottom of Stiles’ stomach.

“It’s every man for himself, then,” Derek declares uneasily, stature completely changed from the easy-going relaxation he had about him not two minutes earlier. He strides forward, leaving Stiles behind. “Scott, come find me, let’s go.”

“I’m on my way,” Scott says.

“You go ahead,” Stiles calls at Derek’s back, bitterness tracing his voice. “I’m the one with the merchandise.”

Kira huffs a frustrated breath, “I’m the one with the _exit_.”

“And I’m the one with the plan,” Erica snaps. Silencing them all. “Now, I know you guys don’t play well with others but I need you to hold it together for exactly _seven_ more minutes. Can we do that? You can do that. Get to the elevator and head down. We’re going for the burn scam.”

Stiles and Derek share a long, serious look but, in the end, Stiles doesn’t hesitate in following after him – and only because he trusts Erica with his life. The elevator doors open with a bright _ding_. They both rush in and begin pulling out the clothes they had packed in their rucksacks.

“We’re going to plan B,” Stiles says, stripping his jacket.

“Technically,” Erica corrects. “It’s plan G.”

The doors open once more when Stiles and Derek are fixing their ties over their shirts, Kira and Scott rush in and begin to change. The boys all pointedly look away as Kira pulls her shirt over her head before pulling on a pale lilac blouse and a neat pencil skirt

“How many plans do we _have_?” Stiles grumbles, trying to make his Windsor knot look somewhat passable. “Is there, like, a plan M?”

“Yup,” Erica says brightly. “You die in plan M.”

Derek slips his blazer over his shoulders, musing quietly, “I like plan M.”

Stiles levels him with a long, dry look. “I don’t like _you_.”

As Scott gets into his business suit, Derek kneels down to place a brace on Kira’s leg whilst Stiles grabs the make-up kit out of her rucksack and starts to put fake burns on her face.

“Stay _still_ ,” he tells her, as she wiggles around – trying to place her feet into brown court heels. “Don’t move.”

When the elevator slows to a smooth stop on the ground floor, Kira has a collapsible cane propped under her arm, and Stiles is holding on to her, ready to pretend to help her walk.

Derek and Scott arrange themselves around them, Derek on Kira’s other side and Scott stood behind them. They leave their rucksacks behind.  

The doors open to reveal one of the night-guards on shift, on the other side of the electronic turnstiles, he has a hand over his holster as he peers towards them but his face immediately clears when he catches sight of Kira hobbling towards him.

The man’s hand leaves his holster, mouth hanging open a little.

“Nice,” Derek snaps, stalking beside Kira. “Why don’t you stare a little more?”

“Sorry,” the guard says, immediately – looking flustered, eyes wide and round.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me, “ Derek mutters and Stiles really has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. They’re crossing the foyer now, and they only need to keep the flustered guard distracted for a little while longer before they’re safe.

“No, Tom,” Kira says, face scrunching up as she pretends to tear up, voice clogged and weepy. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

Stiles turns a stern look on the agitated guard, who’s keeping up beside them, “No, it’s _not_.”

The man flushes a deep red, looking ashamed at himself. Stiles would feel bad but … well.

Scott shakes his head, “ _Unbelievable.”_

“Sorry,” the guard rushes to console, wringing his hands together. “I thought the elevators were locked down. I had to check.”

Kira whimpers, nodding miserably, “I understand.”

A cursory glance out of the glass exterior reveals Erica pulling up to the curb, and Stiles catches Derek’s eye.

The poor guard is still babbling apologies when Derek orders him to open the door, Kira and Stiles squeezing into one portion of the revolving doors, before Scott and Derek follow.

The guard is walking back to his post, now, hand rubbing over his forehead, he’s not paying attention to them anymore.

As they leave the building they can finally drop their act. Kira stops hobbling immediately, throwing her cane at Scott, who catches it quickly in the palm of his hand.

They climb into the car silently, Stiles riding shotgun as Erica presses her foot down and they drive off.

-

Beacon Park is dark and still at this time of night.

They’re the only ones here, congregating in a circle whilst Stiles works to transfer the designs to Dubenich on a small portable computer.

“Come on,” Erica tells him impatiently. “This is taking all night.”

“I’ve got Wi-Fi networks with crappy bandwidth,” he tells her, frowning. “It’s going to take a little time.” It takes another nine minutes but, finally, Stiles can breathe a sigh of relief. “There you go. The designs are sent.”

“Perfect,” Erica grins, stuffing her hands in her jacket pockets. “The money will be in all of your accounts late tomorrow night.”

Stiles packs away his computer, “Anybody else notice how hard we rocked tonight?”

“Yeah, well, no matter how well we _rocked_ ,” Derek says with a wry grin at Stiles, “it was one show only.”

“No encores,” Scott agrees.

Kira shrugs, already backing away, “I’ve already forgotten your names.”

“It was kind of cool though,” Scott says, knocking his shoulder into his older brother’s, “being on the same side.”

“We’re not on the same side,” Erica says, linking her arm through Stiles’. “ _I_ am not a thief.”

“You are now,” Scott smiles at her. “C’mon, tell the truth. Didn’t you have a little bit of fun playing on the dark side tonight? I can’t imagine that socialites get many opportunities like this.”

Erica smiles, conceding his point with a gracious nod, “I’ll give you that.”

Stiles salutes them all, before spinning around with Erica on his arm as they head back home.

-

The first thing that Stiles does, once Erica has dropped him off at the apartment he keeps in Beacon Hills, is crash headfirst on to his mattress. He toes off his shoes with a grunt and sigh, before he slithers his way over to the headboard, wiggling around until his head hits the mattress.

He’s asleep within seconds.

-

Stiles first arrived at the orphanage in Sacramento when he was six years old. His mom was still alive then, but was in no way fit to look after him.

He was seven and a half when she went in for ‘experimental treatment’, eight when she finally passed.

At eleven, he discovered that she was a thief, and a _damn_ good one at that.

So, he decided, he’d be just like her.

-

The cemetery at Beacon Hills is located near the preserve. It’s neat and quiet, with trees shading the benches placed here and there.

The front gates are huge and rounded; shining a glossy black as Stiles pushes his way through them. Wide stone slabs make up the path that Stiles wanders down, a bouquet of soft pink peonies and orange wild lilies in his hand.

There’s hardly any one here as the afternoon dwindles down, but this is just how Stiles likes it, the last burnished rays of the sun warm on his back.

His mom’s grave in the newer section of the cemetery, towards the middle and surrounded by many others. She would have laughed if she could – Stiles doesn’t remember much of his mom, but he knows she loved to be around people. 

He places the flowers in the empty holder by the side, and sits on the ground.

The smooth granite is cool and sturdy as it supports him, and Stiles closes his eyes against the sting of tears.

He hasn’t been back to Beacon Hills in over a year, and he’s leaving at the end of the week – maybe to Lisbon this time, there are a few great art pieces there and, well, the beaches are great this time of year.

Stiles doesn’t talk, sees no need to, but he stays until the night has well and truly fallen. He presses a kiss to his fingertips before laying them gently on the indented script of his mom’s name, and then he turns and leaves.

When he gets home, he stands under the shower for a long time, face turned up to the spray, warmth surrounding him on all sides.

Stiles doesn’t usually feel lonely. Despite everything, he does have a, small, group of friends that he can call his own - but nights like tonight, when he visits his mom is when it hits him the hardest.

-

He orders take-out from the Korean place down the block, puts on the TV but pays no mind to it – but he likes he noise, the sounds of other people, other conversations other than the one warring in his head.

The doorbell rings at quarter past nine and Stiles strides over to it mindlessly.

It’d be an understatement to say that he’s surprised, when he opens the door, to find Derek standing on the other side. Take out bags in his hands.

Stiles stares at him for a long while, and Derek meets his gaze head on, mouth curling up at the corners.

“This is pretty hot,” he comments, gesturing at the package. “You gonna let me in?”

“I didn’t know you freelanced as a delivery boy,” Stiles snarks, even as he steps to the side, opens the door a little wider for Derek to walk in.

He closes the door absent-mindedly, watching the strength in Derek’s thighs, and the trim firmness of his waist as he walks over to the kitchen.

“Where’s your brother?” Stiles calls out after him, following him a tad slower.

“I’m not his keeper,” Derek says, unpacking the take out onto the counter.

“I’m not entirely sure that that’s how the movie goes,” Stiles responds, leaning against the doorjamb, leg crossed over the other, arms across his chest.

Derek looks up at that. Smiling a little. And Stiles likes this - the easy gentleness between them now. He likes knowing that they can snark and bitch, but also settle next to each other seamlessly.

“You’re just going to help yourself?” Stiles asks, gesturing at the food with his chin.

“I paid for it,” Derek says with a raise of his brow.

Which – is true. “But only because you intercepted my delivery boy,” Stiles says, straightening up before he grabs a pair of plates from the cupboard. “Should I be worried that you know where I live?”

“Only if you don’t set the table within the next five minutes.”

Stiles laughs, placing the plates on the breakfast bar. He smiles at Derek, “Should I be worried that we’re actually getting along?”

“Now _that_ ,” Derek says, “is definite cause for concern.”

There isn’t really enough food to divvy up between them, but Stiles is not that hungry anyway. He only snips at Derek’s fork with his chopsticks as they fight over the dumplings.

They don’t really talk during the dinner. There’s nothing really to talk about – they won’t talk about their heist, and neither of them is particularly willing to divulge their life stories.

The conversation comes later; when Stiles has spun around in his chair, back against the breakfast bar, a glass of wine cradled in his hands. His eyes follow Derek’s every move as he places the dishes in the sink.

Stiles bites down on his lower lip, and he watches Derek carefully. They both know what’s going to happen here.

When Derek’s finished, he turns, walking until his standing between Stiles’ legs.

“Thanks for dinner,” he says, quiet.

Stiles quirks a wry grin, “Just let me know before you show up at my place, next time.”

Like this, Stiles has to stare up at Derek, even though they’re more or less the same height side by side. Being underneath the intensity of Derek’s gaze is perplexing – Stiles feels exposed and young all at once, feeling every single year between them. It’s exhilarating.

“I’m not looking for anything serious,” Derek says, grave and serious.

Stiles frowns a little, wondering when the conversation got away from him. “I know,” he says. “Neither am I.”

“Casual,” Derek continues, green eyes boring into Stiles’.

“Casual,” Stiles agrees, eyes drifting down to the soft pink plumpness of Derek’s lips.

“It’ll be no problem for you, I’m sure,” Derek says, mouth parting ever so slightly, so pretty that it takes Stiles a moment before his eyes jerk up to Derek’s, defiant.

“Contrary to popular belief,” he huffs, “I don’t tend to sleep around.”

“Is that so?” Derek asks, and has the indecency to sound amused.

“It is.”

“New York?”

“I hired dancers,” Stiles informs him primly. “Not prostitutes.”

“And Erica?”

“Is Erica,” Stiles says. “She’s like my sister.”

“Huh,” Derek muses quietly, leaning in closer.

“Yeah,” Stiles echoes mulishly, though it comes out a little rough. “ _Huh_.”

He doesn’t get to say anything more than that because then – oh, _then_ , Derek’s mouth is sliding over his.

It’s by no means gentle, but it makes Stiles feels weightless nevertheless. He opens his mouth against Derek’s, groans against him even as he feels Derek’s fingers slide over his in order to grab his wine glass and place it on the counter behind Stiles.

They move across the living room far slower than necessary, Stiles running hands all over the firmness of Derek’s body, pressed tight against him, mouth insatiable for the way that Derek tastes.

They lose shirts, trousers, shoes and socks along the way, until Stiles is rising above Derek, both naked save for their underwear.

Stiles undulates his hips above Derek’s, the other man’s large hands crafting trails of blazing heat across the paths they take on Stiles’ skin. They didn’t bother to turn on the lights, gazes running over  each other guided only by the light of the moon outside.

Stiles looks down at Derek, hands rubbing at the dusting of hair on the man’s chest, his own cheeks feeling red-hot to the touch. He locks gazes with Derek – his pretty green eyes, so pale they glint each time the moon catches them.

Stiles leans down, kisses Derek’s mouth firmly, before trailing down to slowly, languorously kiss his way down his chest.

-

They fall asleep slowly afterwards.

Stiles, still breathing hard, places his head on Derek’s shoulder, the other man’s nose buried in his hair.

They fall asleep like that, twinned together, sweaty and sated.

-

The first time Stiles wakes up; Derek is slinking out of bed, still naked – moonlight casting rays of light to caress the contours of his skin. He looks glorious, Stiles thinks, handsome and strong.

Stiles’ hand grabs at Derek’s before he’s too far away.

“Where y’going?” he asks, voice stuffed with sleep, face smushed into his pillow.

Derek turns around, whispers, “The bathroom, I’ll be right back.”

“You better,” Stiles whispers back, more out of drowsiness than anything else. “I’ll be waiting.”

Then Derek leans in, kisses the lazy, sleepy smile on Stiles’ face. Cupping his jaw, Derek is thorough – kissing him deep and long. “I’ll be right back.”

-

The second time he wakes up, Derek is gone.

-

The third time Stiles wakes up is with the sun shining bright and strong on his face, and his cell phone ringing incessantly on the bedside table, the vibrations rattling on the wood and growing more and more annoying the longer his cell rings.

Stiles eventually manages to stick his arm out of the tangle of duvets in order to fumble for it, he ends up knocking the lamp over the side but he’s just woken up, and he can hardly open his eyes never mind function correctly.

“H’llo?” Stiles mumbles into the phone, rolling over on to his back whilst his other hand rubs the tiredness from his eyes.

Dubenich’s voice comes screeching on the other side of the line, “You screwed me over!”

Stiles stops, eyes opening a little more, “What?”

“The designs never got to me,” Dubenich snaps. “Where are they?”

Stiles sits up, running his hand through his hair before scrubbing over his mouth.

“I watched them go out,” he says, still a little sleep rough. “The designs – they were sent.”

“I don’t know what you saw,” Dubenich says, voice tight and breathless like he’s pacing, “but I got _nothing_.”

“Look, man,” Stiles replies. “I told you not to trust them.”

“It’s not my job to trust anybody,” Dubenich retaliates. “That’s what I hired _you_ for. I can’t-, I’m freezing the payments. I’m freezing _all_ your payments.”

“Now, just wait a second,” Stiles says quickly, because he, for one, does not want to be targeted by a group of unhinged and unpaid thieves. “I’ll go to you right now, we’ll straighten this out.”

“No,” Dubenich snaps. “Do _not_ come here, are you crazy? No. My company has an old aircraft facility just outside the city. I’ll text you the address and you just go there. One hour.”

“One hour,” Stiles agrees, before hanging up and beginning the laborious task of getting dressed.

Stiles finds the warehouse easily enough, getting there early, even. Though he’s not really expecting to hear the sound of voices arguing as he warily enters.

He’s not really expecting to _recognise_ those voices either.

They’re congregating in the middle of the large room when Stiles walks in through the door, Derek and Scott on one side, Kira standing opposite – gun in her hand.

They all turn to look at him when he walks down the set of stairs, and he locks eyes with Derek.

Stiles has to work hard not to outwardly show the flash of hurt that spirals through him as he and Derek look at each other. It’s clear that the other man was not expecting to see Stiles ever again, and especially not so soon.

Stiles can’t really stomach the look on Derek’s face right now – a tumultuous mix of surprise and panic, though he has the decency to look a little bit ashamed – so, instead he squares his jaw and straightens his shoulders. It’s a little awkward, but Stiles is a big boy, he can handle rejection every now and again.  

“You mind telling me what happened to the designs?” Stiles asks them all, gaze turning back to Derek when Scott and Kira remain silent. He comes to a stop next to them, rounding out the group. “Derek?”

“What makes you think I know what happened?” Derek asks, voice tight through gritted teeth.

A thought occurs to Stiles and he feels a hot flush of anger coursing through him.

“Is that why you came by last night?” he demands, turning on Derek, lip curling back in disgusted contempt. Scott whips his head towards his older brother; apparently, Derek’s little visit is news to him. “It wasn’t enough for you to-,” Stiles stops suddenly, biting down on his words as his cheeks heat up with latent embarrassment.

“Yeah, _that’s_ why I went by,” Derek retorts, sarcasm clear in his voice, but his face softens a little in regret when he rakes his gaze over Stiles’ face. “It’s also why I’m standing here right now looking for answers.”

“Look,” Kira interrupts, fingers tightening around the gun she’s wielding. “My money is not in my account,” she turns to Scott and Derek. “You must have done it when we were coming down the elevator.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Scott says, brows drawn tightly in anger. He jerks a hand towards Stiles. “ _He_ had the file every second.”

“Hey now,” Stiles refutes loudly, arms coming up in a flail of denial. “I did my part. I transferred the files.”

Kira waggles her gun in front of Derek to catch his attention.

“You better get that gun out of my face,” he warns her.

She narrows her eyes, “What did you do?”

“Or else,” he continues, voice placid and no less threatening, “I’m gonna feed it to you.”

“Hey,” Scott yells, pushing Kira back from where she’d lunged at Derek. “Calm down.”

Stiles eyes up Derek, “You seem pretty relaxed for a guy with a gun pointed at him.”

Derek looks at Stiles, then at Kira and back again. He waves an awkward hand, “Safety’s on.”

“Like I’m gonna fall for that,” Kira scoffs.

Stiles glances down at the gun in her hand and sure enough-

“No, actually, he’s right,” he tells her, scratching at the back of his neck. “The safety _is_ on.”

Kira looks down at the gun and Derek rolls his eyes, snatching it out of her grip.

Stiles claps his hands together loudly, the sound echoing around the warehouse.

“Alright,” he exclaims. “Any other weapons?”

Derek shakes his head, disarming the Glock in his hands, “I don’t like guns.”

Stiles looks at Scott, who shrugs and says, “Derek doesn’t like guns.”

“Fabulous,” Stiles drawls, watching as Derek tosses parts of the gun towards different areas of the room. “So, did you guys come here to get paid?”

“Hell no,” Scott says, shifting around on his feet. “Transfer of funds, man. It’s a global economy.”

“It’s supposed to be a walk-away,” Derek adds. Then whilst carefully not looking at Stiles, he continues, “We’re never supposed to see each other again.”

“Oh, really,” Stiles snaps, staring hard at Derek. “Given your actions this morning, I would never have guessed.”

Scott is staring between once more, eyes narrowed. Kira looks both curious and impatient.

“Stiles,” Derek says tightly, glancing up and then away again. “It was-. We said casual.”

“Yes, _casual_ , Derek,” Stiles bites off. “I’m _well aware_ of what that means, I assure you. But, funnily enough, I thought I’d at least warrant a goodbye, and not to be treated like a whore left in your hotel room.”

Derek flinches at the words and Kira looks between them, mouth dropped open in surprise. Scott crosses his arms tightly across his chest, eyebrows lifting up in stern disappointment, he turns towards Derek with his mouth lined tight together as he silently demands an explanation.

Stiles feels a surge of affection for Scott even as Derek avoids his brother’s gaze, looking, for all intents and purposes, like a reprimanded child – the tips of his ears flushing pink.

“Guys,” Kira hazards, breaking the god-awful tension. “Maybe it’s not the time to be airing our dirty laundry.”

Stiles wants to flail around and yell at Derek some more, but Kira’s got a point. They’re all here for a reason, after all.

He takes a deep breath, looking around at the barren warehouse as he scrubs his hands through his hair.

“The only reason you guys are here is because you didn’t get paid, and you’re pissed off,” Stiles says, hands on his hips as he looks at them all. “I mean, as a matter of fact, the only way to get us all here at the same place at the same time would be to tell us that we’re not …” Stiles’ words falter as realisation dawns on him, he finishes softly, “getting paid.”

He jerks his eyes up to Derek, finding the same look of horrible awareness in his eyes. Kira and Scott look at each other and then at the group.

They all fumble into action, running as fast as they can towards the exit. Derek gets there first, opening to door and motioning for everyone to go through with wide gestures.

“Come _on_ ,” he yells at them. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s _go_.”

Scott runs out first, but Stiles trips on the stairs, because _of-fucking-course_. Derek makes a move to go towards him, but Kira is already there, arms on Stiles’ ribs as she helps him up, pushing him in front of her, “Come on.”

The blast starts from deep inside the warehouse, at a time when Dubenich would be sure the team would be collected together.

The heat hits Stiles first, as he looks over his shoulder to watch the fire rush towards them, but the blast knocks them all apart.

It’s earth-shatteringly loud, bits of debris flying away from the structure as it explodes – four bodies thrown in the air before they crash to the ground with a heavy dull thud.

-

Stiles wakes up slowly, in thick, sluggish increments.

He blinks the dull dryness in his eyes away, and tries to unstick his heavy tongue from the roof of his mouth.

He’s in a hospital bed, that’s for sure. Everything is staunchly clinical and eerily well organised. There are two empty beds next to him, one beside him and the other opposite it.

There's some movement on the other side of him and he turns his head. Derek is in the bed next to him, handcuffed to the bars.

Stiles belatedly glances down at his right wrist, and sure enough, he has his own set of matching handcuffs. He tugs on it, even though he knows it’s useless - weak and sluggish as he feels.

Derek, on the other hand, is sitting up in his bed, calm as can be. His eyes rove over Stiles’ body, seemingly cataloguing his well-being.

Stiles feels like he’s been run over by a tractor, but seeing as Derek looks pretty much fine, he’s going to go ahead and assume that he isn’t covered in third degree burns.

He only realises he’s been staring at Derek for a little too long when the other man raises his brow in question.

Stiles ignores him, pulling on his handcuffs, shifting uncomfortably in the zealously laundered and stiffly starched hospital bedsheets.

“You don’t like hospitals,” Derek muses, and it’s odd – to see him in hospital garments – completely innocuous for a man like him.

“Not much,” Stiles says, mouth twisting in discomfort.

“It’s about time,” Kira says from opposite, and Stiles starts a little before looking over. He hadn’t even realised the other two were in the room.

Scott’s in the bed opposite Stiles, also handcuffed.

Kira, however, is pacing up and down the length of her bed, opposite Derek, tossing her unclasped handcuffs from hand to hand.

Stiles blinks, “What?”

Scott lifts his own handcuffed hand towards Kira. She ignores him.

“Cops and firemen got there just as we were waking up,” Kira says instead to Stiles. The she pauses, “By we, I mean us,” she says gesturing at the Hale brothers. She snorts inelegantly as she looks back at Stiles. “ _You_ were out like a light.”

Stiles grunts, sitting up with difficulty. He has a mighty headache roaring in his head – he only needs about half a tonne of painkillers.

He stares up at the bland white ceiling as he waits for the world to stop spinning, “Where are we?”

From the threshold comes a new voice.

“Beacon Hills Memorial,” the man says, as four heads turn to peer at him. He’s obviously a cop; a Sheriff, Stiles realises, golden badge on the lapel of green overcoat. “Local cops responded to the explosion."

He has his hands on his hips, exposing the holster beneath his jacket. He barely hesitates before he's striding inside their room.

Stiles, along with the Hale brothers, stare in baffled wariness as the man gently, but firmly, guides Kira back to her bed. She’s so surprised by this, that she’s handcuffed once more in no time – the Sheriff sliding the hairgrip she’d hidden from her hair and into his pocket.

He gives each of them a long, considerate perusal, “Now,” he says. “You kids ready to talk?”

Predictably, no one says a word. Not even when he stares each of them down - Derek especially. But Stiles figures it's because of the glower, the beard and the, quite frankly, alarming levels of hostility eminating from his muscles alone.

The Sheriff, sighing once more, scrubs his hand at his forehead.

“Look, now,” he says, losing patience fast. “I don’t have all day-”

A nurse appears at the threshold, “Sheriff Stilinski?” she asks, and the Sheriff turns to her, words abandoned.

Stiles jerks violently in his bed, handcuffs clinking against the metal bedframe.

Everyone stares at him, but he can’t take his eyes from the Sheriff.

Sheriff Stilinski.

_Stilinski._

It could just be a coincidence, but Stiles isn’t stupid. That name isn’t at all common, and for it to come up in Beacon Hills of all places …

Stiles’ eyes are wide and round, a little wet, to his shame. His heart is pounding in his ribcage, breath coming in short uneven pants. He can feel his team’s gazes upon him, Derek’s especially – calculating and serious as it always is.

But Stiles can’t concentrate on anything but the Sheriff – the man with a hand resting on his holster, expression crinkled into genuine concern – if a little cautious.

He regards Stiles carefully, “You alright, son?”

Stiles’ breath leaves him in a rush and he knows, he _knows_ , that the man doesn’t mean it like that but _goddammit_  Stiles is too worked up to say anything at all, settling instead for voraciously taking in every detail of the Sheriff.

The Sheriff frowns harder, turning from Stiles to the nurse, talking in quiet tones.

“Can you check him for a concussion?” the Sheriff tells her, voice tight with concern.

She nods briskly, eyes darting to Stiles and then back to the Sheriff, “I just got a call from dispatch. You’re needed back at the station.”

The nods his assent, but he turns, giving Stiles one last, lingering look before he walks out of the door.

-

**Author's Note:**

> I've hit a wall with Higher than the Beasts, I am still trying to work past it but - _plot_ man. It will get done soon. In other news, Raise Your Heart should be updated soon! :) 
> 
> I'm going to bed, I have an eleven am lecture and it's already half past three!


End file.
